


pic et pic

by billspilledquill



Category: 1789 - バスティーユの恋人たち | 1789: Les Amants de la Bastille - Takarazuka Revue, 1789: Les Amants de la Bastille - Various Composers/Attia & Chouquet
Genre: M/M, PWP, Threesome - M/M/M, for your information: yes i hate myself too, one (1) emotionally compromised blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 17:08:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15029249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billspilledquill/pseuds/billspilledquill
Summary: Sometimes, they can settle their differences for a while and try to make things a little better, one at a time.Or, Danton is so very done, and none of them can communicate properly.





	pic et pic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WildandWhirling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildandWhirling/gifts).



> this fic is thanks to wildandwhirling and pic et pic bc I JUST REALIZED ITS EXISTENCE IN THE MUSICAL HOW COME NO ONE TOLD ME THIS.

 

“We are not finished!”

Camille sighs. “I thought things are already settled.”

They have just escaped from the printing press, everyone is out of breath, and if anything, Camille really, definitely doesn’t have time for this.

Maximilien crosses his arms. “I agree. I don’t think this is the time for useless quarrels.”

Danton nods, and places a hand on Robespierre’s shoulder. “I understand that you are justifiably angered. We can sort it out later.”

“I’m not finished,” Ronan readies himself and balls his fists. “You just don’t care.”

Camille grits his teeth. Maximilien looks at him and shakes his head. He steps up.

“Look, you know how I’d hate to be the peacemaker,” he says, ruffling his hair. “But there’s no need to make war—“

They don’t understand, he thinks. He sees clouds and hears shouts, and before he realizes, Robespierre is on the floor and wincing from the pain.

“You have never even see war,” Ronan says, stage-whispering. His arms pinning him on the floor. His eyes accusatory. “You are incapable of life, death and even trying to understand _us_.” He jabs a finger to his chest, making him steps backwards. “ _You_. You of all have never witnessed death of people that you treasured. You don’t have any rights to say anything—“

“We don’t,” he says. “I don’t pretend that we have any rights. That’s exactly what we are planning to do, that’s what this whole scheme is for. Do you think I dance on tables for fun?”

“I do,” he says. “God, have you all been through any hardships? My father is in my arms when he died. My sister–“ he stops, opts to look at the floor when he realizes that the man is literally beneath him.

Robespierre tilts his head, his dark curls moving like snakes on the ground. “My mother died in front of me when I was six, if that’s what you are asking for.”

Ronan’s scowl falters for a moment before it disappears completely. “I—I’m sorry.”

Robespierre does his best of a shrug, being pinned on the ground and all. “Don’t be bothered.”

They stayed like this for a while, until Camille lets out a laugh, sounding relived. “I think you finally broke him, Maxime.”

Robespierre huffs, his eyes fluttering shut. He stretches a little under him. Ronan thinks of cats in the sun. “This is comfortable, I think I may stay here.”

Danton is putting a hand on Ronan’s back, pulling at his coat. “Come on, let’s resume our work.”

Ronan shuts his eyes. He can hear the soft breathings under him, Desmoulins’ snickers. He shuts them until he sees stars. “No, I told you, I have things to solve.”

“Oh my god,” Georges says, gripping his coat a little tighter. “I thought you were being a little sober after that, but I guess I’m mistaken.”

“I’m not done,” he says, hearing Camille stepping closer.

“Maxime,” Camille says. Ronan can almost taste the hidden laughter in that voice. Smug bastard. “Make him shut up.”

There is a pause, until Maximilien’s eyes brightens with mischief. He smiles, and the cat got its cream.

“Gladly.” Robespierre says, and Ronan feels hands on his cheeks, the fingers gently rubbing his hair.

He opens his eyes, and what greets him are blue and orange and red blooming in front of him, and the feeling of someone’s lips on his, soft and pliant on his.

 _Oh_.

Ronan’s mouth opens, shocked. Apparently that was enough for him to slips his tongue in it. Ronan groans at the sensation, his cheeks heat up, not caring for his heart beating out of his ribcage.

Robespierre licks his lips when he pulls away, and Ronan shifts on his position, flushed. He wants to bury himself alive.

“Yup,” Maximilien says, making a ‘pop’ with his mouth. “I think it’s working.”

“I-“ Ronan starts. “You-I’m—“

“Okay,” he chuckles, his legs bucking against his. “Maybe it will need some work before he completely shuts up. Give me a little more time?”

This is normal, he thinks. Like being able to count four freckles across Robespierre’s nose, like having his two arms around his neck, like his eyes, shining maliciously, his pupils blown wide by the kiss. Like being undressed in front of two people that he knows—

Wait, _what_?

“What are you doing?” He asks, sounding strangled even in his own ears.

He hums, smiling. “What do you mean?”

“Your hands—“

“My hands are doing what they ought to do.” He says, leaning close to his ears. “Also, _this_.”

He kisses him again, and this time, Ronan kisses back. He moans into the kiss, and trails another one on his neck.

“Oh, _oh_ ,” Robespierre says, arching his back, laughing a little breathlessly. “Wow, I-I think he likes it.”

“He likes to put on a show, I see.” Danton is saying. “Fine, we’ll indulge you a bit more, finish what you have started.”

Maximilien does a thumb up. Ronan takes the chance grab his hair and tilts his head to allow better access. Maximilien laughs a little more, and lets him.

“Can I join?” Camille asks.

“Ask– _ah_ –ask him,” he whispers. Ronan is almost disappointed that he is distracted enough to speak. His hand rubs his clothed chest, gets under his waistcoat. Robespierre smiles, “The boy is getting a little possessive, I believe.”

Ronan stops for a second, and looks at Desmoulins. He is staring. Ronan smirks, feeling somehow victorious. “So?”

“What?” Camille says, sounding affronted.

“If there is anything you want,” he says. “Just ask for it.”

Robespierre adds with a helpful tone, “I think he’s trying to make you beg.”

“Yeah, I figured, thanks.” Camille says, crossing his arms. His eyes dart between him and Robespierre. “Well, uh.”

“Continue,” he prompts.

“Well,” Camille scoffs, shifts his weight. “Please?”

“Please, what?” Ronan is grinning right now, knowing that Camille is playing a lost battle. His stutters only made the victory sweeter.

“Please let me join?”

So Ronan gestures him to come, and he does. He sighs softly, feeling that for the first time in a while, that he is truly, finally, in control. They all sit, except for Danton, who seems to be enjoying himself enough to stand back.

“He tastes good,” he says. “Exquisite.”

Maximilien smiles at the praise, “And you taste as if you have been eating dirt for the part three months.” This earns a jab at the ribs, and Maximilien laughs harder at that.

Camille asks, his fingers reaching Ronan’s, a little cautiously. “Can I?”

And so Ronan kisses his fingers, and for a moment, all is right in the world.

Until he bites them, that is. Robespierre is grinning at the development of their silly game.

Camille lets out a yelp. “What the fuck?”

“That’s for you insulting me.” He shrugs. “Now, kiss me, bastard.”

And they did.

“Georges,” Robespierre asks in between that, “wanna come?”

“No thanks,” he says. “My wife is better than any of you.”

He huffs, “Okay,” he dusts off the dirt and gets up. “For our prints, do you think we need to change the word oppresser in the text? Because I think that it needs to be something stronger than that, something like—“

He looks at the arms that prevent him from standing. “—Greedy, aren’t we?”

“Stay,” Camille says, smiling. “You can recite the words from here. Georges can hear you perfectly well. Isn’t it, Georges?”

“I’m fine as long as you don’t get caught.”

“See?” He says. “Ronan is pouting.”

“I’m not.”

Robespierre stares. “I’m staying if you tell me that you are.”

Ronan pauses, and Camille presses his hand on his shoulder. “Fine,” he says. “I was pouting a little. Happy?”

“You were pouting a lot.”

“Only a little.”

Robespierre moves away. He stops him, saying, “Okay, oh my god, I was pouting a lot, _a whole lot_ , okay? Now please stay and recite your dumb bourgeois monologue to us while you fuck us or something.”

“Sure,” he smiles, and sits back to his place.

Camille chuckles while they are undressing him. “I wonder where you got all that red from. I mean, just look at you, you seem to be auditioning for the national flag.”

Robespierre closes his eyes, humming. “Red and black,” he says. “Sounds like a good title for a book.”

He kneels and mouths at Ronan’s clothed breeches. “Let me,” he says. “I will be good.”

“Let Camille works you out while you do what you have to do, okay?” He taps his chin, and Maxime nods eagerly. “I except every word to be perfectly intelligible.”

“What words?” Robespierre asks when he is opening his breeches.

“The words for the Assembly.”

“Oh,” he says, his lips already touching his head, his tongue swirling at the tip. “Of course.”

Ronan groans, feeling his mouth taking all of him in. He looks at Camille, his face deep in Maxime. “Say what you have to say, monsieur Robespierre.”

Robespierre moans around the length, tries to pull off when Ronan puts a hand on his head. “No, monsieur. Say it like here, _now_.”

Some few gagged sounds were heard, and out of the corner of his eye, he can see Danton looking at them, unimpressed. Camille lets out a little laugh, and he knows he had come already.

“ _Citizens, I remind you of the vital importance of the nation's salvation. On what grounds do you feel obligated to deal with Louis?_ ” Danton says, grabbing a paper from his bag. His solemn and uninterested voice resonates in the room, along with sounds of skin touching skin. “ _Punishing a tyrant is not the nation's disgraceful thirst for vengeance, it is the need to consolidate the state's liberty and peace of mind_ —“

Camille stands up, looking a little dazed. “Give me that paper, I can help Maximilien when he is busy.” He says, already taking it with one hand. “ _And it would be better if you had totally forgotten about punishing him, rather than allow his trial to feed the unrest and start a civil war. Each moment we delay allows a new threat to emerge_ — um, I think you will need to check little on the word _threat_ , I don’t think that— uh, Maxime?”

Ronan comes with a groan, and paints his face with splashes of white. Robespierre blinks, licks the corner of his mouth, and stands up with wobbled legs. From kneeling too much, probably.

He wipes the excesses with one grand gesture, and dresses up within a minute. Ronan barely had time cleaning himself that Robespierre is already putting a hand on his shoulder, smiling.

“Now that it’s settled, let’s go back to work.”

Ronan nods, and decides not to mention the white that’s left on his hair.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Plz tell me that im awful


End file.
